


Queen and Pawn

by Tollwutgefahr



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mordred would be perfectly happy to watch (most of) the world burn, Multi, Voyeurism, allusions to Arthur/Guinevere, allusions to Lancelot/Guinevere, and this is going to be a Guinevere/Mordred fic, eventually this will have at least mentions of Arthur/Guinevere/Lancelot, which is extra complicated but I won't tell you why just yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-14 03:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21009119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tollwutgefahr/pseuds/Tollwutgefahr
Summary: Certain lives come with certain expectations. Be a good king. Be a good queen. Be the greatest knight. Topple a king and take his kingdom.But is expectation destiny? How strong is the will of Fate, and can anyone escape it?





	1. Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> A new knight is added to the Round Table, one Guinevere finds a little too familiar in ways that make her uneasy.

Guinevere noticed the youth's eyes first. They were pale and never seemed to hold one color for long; a simple shift in the light could send them from green or blue to gray or amber. The eyes reminded her of Arthur, but that was where the resemblance ended. The youth had a dark, sullen expression and dark, wavy hair. 

She supposed Mordred took after his mother and aunt that way. She had heard that Gorlois, Morgause and Morgan le Fay's father (and Igraine's first husband, of course), had been dark-haired. Mordred's hair seemed darker than his elder brothers'. And where Gawain, Agravaine, Gareth, and Gaheris were all sturdy and well muscled, Mordred was lean and wiry, and not quite as tall. Guinevere had heard murmurings that Mordred had been a sickly child, unexpected and born in the winter. But he had lived, and now he came to Camelot to be knighted.

Arthur called his nephew forward. Mordred stood beside his mother, slightly behind his aunt Morgan (she was his godmother, too, as strange as it seemed for s sorceress to be a godmother; there was talk at court that she may have taught the youth some of her magic). He shifted to move past them as he obeyed the word of his king and uncle; Morgan caught his wrist and for a moment he stopped, turning his gaze to hers. Guinevere couldn't see his face, but there was something in Morgan's smile that made her shiver. 

The moment passed, and Mordred pulled his arm away, scowling at the floor a moment before lifting his head to meet Arthur's gaze. He walked until they were only a few steps apart (he was closer to Arthur's height than Guinevere had expected), then dropped to one knee, drew his sword, and held it point down in front of him, like a cross, and bowed his head before his king. Arthur drew Excalibur and recited for all those present the oath he gave his knights to swear. Mordred swore the oath, as his brother had sworn it before him, and Arthur brought Excalibur down to touch each of Mordred's shoulders before bidding him rise, no longer simply Mordred, but now Sir Mordred of the Round Table.

He raised his head before he stood, and Guinevere found her eyes locked with his. She couldn't read his expression, but something about the way it felt to hold his gaze made her turn away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him stand and sheathe his sword only to be mobbed and jostled by his older brothers a moment later. 

There was something unsettling about Mordred, she thought. Or something unsettling in the way she felt when their eyes met. There had been something almost similar when she'd first met Lancelot, and before that when she'd first met Arthur. Knowing that, Guinevere wasn't sure how to feel about having Mordred at court.


	2. Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred challenges Lancelot to combat during a tourney. Afterwards, he gives Guinevere a challenge as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, there is canon typical violence in this chapter, but nothing as violent as can be found in Chrétien de Troyes' Arthurian tales.

The tourney had, thus far, been a great success. There had been injuries, of course, but nothing that could not be healed with good care. All of the Knight of the Round Table had kept the competition to nothing more than friendly rivalry and the usual desire to show each other up in feats of strength.

Now it was Mordred's turn again, having this time challenged Lancelot. The young knight had proven himself stronger than his appearance in the year since his knighting, but most of the older knights had still tried to convince him to wait at least another year before challenging Arthur's chief champion. But Mordred could not be persuaded to abandon his challenge, and so both knights mounted their horses for the joust.

Guinevere had little doubt that Lancelot would be the victor. He was, after all, the best Camelot had to offer, and the most dedicated. Mordred was a youth of nineteen and as sullen in looks as ever. And his pale, changeable eyes were as confusing to Guinevere as they were the first day she saw him. 

At the first tilt, both lances shattered and Mordred and Lancelot each took up their second lance for the next bout of jousting. The struck hard, and Mordred fell from his horse, shards of wood lodged in the holes of his helm.   
Scrambling to his feet, Mordred shed his helm and drew his sword, yanking his shield away from the squire that brought it to him. At the other end of the field, Lancelot dismounted as well, taking up his shield and drawing his sword. Seeing that the younger knight wore no helmet, Lancelot removed his own helm as well. Guinevere smiled at that; Lancelot was ever courteous to his fellows.

Swords and shields clashed. Lancelot had more experience--and greater reach--but Mordred was an agile opponent. Several times he backed Lancelot up against the jousting divider and looked to have won the match, but Lancelot always managed to push him back. 

The drama of the combat increased when Lancelot managed to divest Mordred of his shield. This, however, only seemed to make the younger knight more determined, as he took his sword in both hands and drove Lancelot back again. The pair locked in combat, grappling for a moment--longer than a moment, really, as it was long enough that a shiver ran through Guinevere, as from her seat she could not see the combatants' swords clearly enough to know if Lancelot was safe.

Suddenly, the knights parted as a cry like that of a wounded predator rang out. There was blood on Mordred's face and a shocked look on Lancelot's. Arthur stood just as Mordred pressed the attack again, almost catching Lancelot off guard. Guinevere took Arthur's hand, as much to support him as to keep herself grounded. Mordred in a rage was...worrying. 

"Hold, Mordred!" Arthur cried. Mordred froze, sword raised high above his head, prepared to strike at Lancelot, whom he had knocked to the ground. "You have won this day, Sir Mordred," Arthur continued. "Lower your blade."

Mordred spat blood and lowered his sword, though he did not immediately move to help Lancelot stand. He stared at the older knight with those strange eyes, the drove his sword into the earth and reached to help Lancelot stand. Once on his feet again, Lancelot clapped Mordred on the back.

"You'll be great knight, I have no doubt," he told Mordred. "However, do remember that mercy is a virtue."

Mordred grunted noncommittally and pulled his sword from the earth, wiping the dirt off on his boot before sheathing the weapon. He turned to go to his tent, but Arthur called out and stopped him.

"As you have won, be gracious enough to allow the queen to aid the surgeons in seeing to your wound." It wasn't uncommon, but Guinevere did not relish the idea of being almost alone with Mordred. For his part, Mordred bowed his head slightly in assent, eyes locking for a moment with Guinevere's before he walked away.

\-------

Guinevere found Mordred in the surgeons' tent. He was glowering at those who would tend to his wound and held a thickly folded cloth against the right side of his face to staunch some of the blood flow.

Gently, Guinevere rested a hand on Mordred's shoulder; he jerked away and turned his glower upon her. Still, she saw that some of the tension went out of his slim shoulders and he averted his gaze.

"If you will not let the surgeons have a look, will you allow me?" she asked softly. Mordred gave no reply, but he did lower the cloth and turn to face her full on. A deep cut ran from the corner of his jaw across his cheek and the bridge of nose, stopping just between his eyebrows. Guinevere gasped slightly, and Mordred gave her a bitter half-grin with the left side of his face, his teeth still reddened by his own blood.

"It will be quite the scar, will it not...my queen?" 

Mordred's tone was odd, and Guinevere couldn't quite tell if he was mocking her or if wasn't. She cupped his chin in her hand, tilting it up slightly to make him look at her. It seemed to Guinevere that Mordred held his breath for a moment, and his eyes held something like confusion when the met hers. His expression softened slightly as he seemed to remember to breath. Guinevere felt the warmth of his blood on her hand and wished his eyes didn't look so much like Arthur's. If it wasn't for the dark hair, she could almost believe she was looking at a young Arthur, younger than he was before she met him. There was something dangerous to that.

Still holding Mordred's chin, she replied, "It will be impressive, I must admit. No doubt the maidens will find it striking."

He blinked, furrowed his brow, and winced. It seemed he had forgot how high the cut reached. "And...do _you_ find it striking, my queen?" 

Guinevere hadn't expected that. It was a challenge, though she found herself unsure of to what end he meant it. She looked away from him and let go of his chin, then found a cloth to wipe her bloodied hand on. She left the tent without giving Mordred a reply.


	3. Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordred watches Lancelot and the queen.

Mordred watched from a hiding spot most other knights couldn't reach. A spot most people couldn't reach, but Mordred had never been "most people." That was one of many things Morgan always said. 

The queen had no idea she was being watched. She was beautiful, truly, though Mordred would certainly never admit that. That would show weakness, and Mordred--scars notwithstanding--was _not_ weak. No. But the queen had a weakness--two, really, but only one that counted--and that weakness had just made his entrance.

Lancelot. The king's right hand and the queen's bed-warmer. More than bed-warmer, of course, but it wouldn't do to be crass. Not yet. Mordred thought there might also be something worth exploring in the way the king sometimes looked at Lancelot, but that was a task for another time. For now, Lancelot and the queen were enough to observe.

They were kissing. Exactly how did people know how to kiss? Did it take practice, and would Lancelot and the queen be considered good at it? From the way they kept at it, Mordred had to assume they were. Clearly besotted with each other, too. But Mordred had known that for years; managing to catch them at it was new, and largely thanks to meetings with Morgan. It was useful, if somewhat ironic, to have a sorceress for a godmother. Even if Mordred had never quite been comfortable around her, she'd still been a larger force than Mother had been. Perhaps it was just easier to hand over the bastard that was Mordred to Morgan. Morgan had been instrumental in Mordred's making, after all. Made Mother look like someone else, like the wizard Merlin had made Uther look like Gorlois. There were an _uncomfortable_ amount of similarities in Mordred and the king's begetting.

Mordred swept that line of thought aside and focused again on the adulterers. Lancelot was a lucky bastard; a lucky bastard who wasn't actually a bastard, not in the way Mordred was, at least. The word still applied. He'd given Mordred a scar to remember him by, after all. He was lucky the king had called a halt, or Mordred would have given him worse. Lancelot was too lucky, and that luck would run out some day. Mordred would make sure of it. 

Lancelot loosened the queen's hair, and it fell in chestnut waves about her shoulders. Pale shoulders--a queen spent most of the time indoors, naturally. Lancelot cupped her cheek with a calloused hand and she smiled, leaning into the touch. She had a beautiful smile. Her jawline was a work of art, and calling her eyes "brown" didn't do them justice. Mordred didn't have the words to do them justice. No doubt Lancelot did, and that made Mordred hate him that much more. He was too damned _perfect_, that too lucky bastard knight; and Mordred--against anything that resembled better judgment--envied him. 

If it were Mordred's hand on her cheek, lips against hers, wouldn't that be...something? Mordred was supposed to hate the queen, not...want her. But Mordred had never been the best at "supposed to," either, and came from a line that took what it wanted.


End file.
